RaGiN CaJuN's blog: "dark dreams"

Beaches, surfers, California girls. Wind scented with fabulous dreams. Bougainvillea, groves of oranges. Stars are born, everything gleams. A weather change. Shadows fall. New scent upon the wind - decay. Cocaine, Uzis, drive-by shootings. Death is a banker. Everyone pays. --- Under the winter moon's pale light, across the cold and starry night, from snowy mountains soaring high to ocean shores echoes the cry. From barren sands to verdant fields, from city streets to lonely wealds, cries the tortured human heart, seeking solace, wisdom, a chart by which to understand its plight under the winter moon's pale light. Dawn is unable to fade the night. Must we live 'ever in the blight under the winter moon's cold light, lost in loneliness, hate, and fright, last night, tonight, tomorrow night under the winter moon's bleak light?

In the fields of life, a harvest sometimes comes far out of season, when we thought the earth was old and could see no earthly reason to rise for work at break of dawn, and put our muscles to the test. With winter here and autumn gone, it just seems best to rest, to rest. But under winter fields so cold, wait the dormant seeds of seasons unborn, and so the heart does hold hope that heals all bitter lesions. In the fields of life, a harvest. --- Life is a gift that must be given back and joy should arise from its possession. It's too damned short, and that's a fact. Hard to accept, this earthly procession to final darkness is a journey done, circle completed, work of art sublime, a sweet melodic rhyme, a battle won. --- Death is no fearsome mystery. He is well known to thee and me. He had no secrets he can keep to trouble any good man's sleep. Turn not thy face from Death away. Care not he takes our breath away. Fear him not, he's not thy master, rushing at thee faster, faster. Not thy master but servant to the Maker of thee, what or Who created Death, created thee --and is the only mystery.

Rush headlong and hard at life Or just sit at home and wait. All things good and all the wrong will come right to you: it's fate. Hear the music, dance if you can. Dress in rags or wear your jewels. Drink your choice, nurse your fear In this old honkytonk of fools. --- Living in the modern age, death for virtue is the wage. So it seems in darker hours. Evil wins, kindness cowers. Ruled by violence and vice We all stand upon thin ice. Are we brave or are we mice, here upon such thin, thin ice? Dare we linger, dare we skate? Dare we laugh or celebrate, knowing we may strain the ice? Preserve the ice at any price? --- Faraway in China, the people sometimes say, life is often bitter and all too seldom gay. Bitter as dragon tears, great cascades of sorrows flood down all the years, drowning our tomorrows. Faraway in China, the people also say, life is sometimes joyous if all too often gray, Although life is seasoned with bitter dragon tears, seasoning is just a spice within our brew Of years. Bad times are only rice, tears are one more flavour, that gives us sustenance, something we can savor. --- Those who would banish the sin of greed embrace the sin of envy as their creed. Those who seek to banish envy as well, only draw elaborate new maps of hell. Those with passion to change the world, look of themselves as saints, as pearls, and by the launching of noble endeavor, flee dreaded introspection forever.

Now take my hand and hold it tight. I will not fail you here tonight, For failing you, I fail myself And place my soul upon a shelf In Hell's library without light. I will not fail you here tonight

In the real world as in dreams, nothing is quite what it seems. --- Life without meaning cannot be borne. We find a mission to which we're sworn - or answer the call of Death's dark horn. Without a gleaning of purpose in life, we have no vision, we live in strife, - or let blood fall on a suicide knife. --- Nowhere can a secret keep always secret, dark and deep, half so well as in the past, buried deep to last, to last. Keep it in your own dark heart, otherwise the rumors start. After many years have buried secrets over which you worried, no confidant can then detray all the words you didn't say. Only you can then exhume secrets safe within the tomb of memory, of memory, within the tomb of memory. --- In the real world as in dreams, nothing is quite what it seems. --- Vibrations in a wire. Ice crystals in a beating heart. Cold fire.